


gimme love

by nahco3



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M, pod save the wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 16:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11235246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: And I want what I want/ do you think that I want too much?





	gimme love

**Author's Note:**

> this is a product of my imagination and obviously not real at all! please don't share it with anyone mentioned in this fic.

It's late evening; the cold clear Maine summer day fading seamlessly into the velvet dark of night. Tommy's at the beach, by himself, sitting on a rock. The tide’s at a low ebb and there's a tide line of seaweed and sea shells not far from his feet. In the distance he can hear the music from the reception. He peels the label off his Sam Adams, throwing the little pellets of paper into the sand. He's trying to feel good about having kept it together this long.

People get sick of you having the same breakdown over and over. They aren't much help the first time, but at least they want to be. By the fifth iteration of the same shit, they don't care. Tommy's sick of breaking down too, but unfortunately that has fuck all to do with anything. 

He tries to focus on his senses, one at time. The cold of the beer bottle in his hand. The sound of the waves, gentle against the rock of the beach. The path of the moonlight on the water. The cold brine smell of the sea. There’s still panic clawing up his throat. Another deep breath. The rock under his legs. The clutter of feet behind him. He shuts his eyes and doesn't manage to suppress his terror when someone touches his shoulder.

“Thought you'd be down here,” Jon says, lightly. He sits on the beach leaning back against Tommy’s legs. He’ll ruin his suit but maybe he doesn't care. He reaches his hand back and Tommy passes him his beer. 

“It reminds me of college,” Jon says. There's plenty of moonlight, enough to watch the white column of Jon’s throat work as he takes a pull of beer. 

“All the horrible straight people?” Tommy asks. 

“The stars,” Jon says, tipping his head all the way back, so the curve of his skull is resting against Tommy’s thigh. Despite himself, Tommy cards his hand through Jon’s curls. 

“How are you holding up?” Jon asks. Tommy shrugs, rubbing his thumb against Jon’s temple. There isn't anything new to say. He misses his dad, he misses the life he thought he’d have, the family he never got, feels the lack continuously, an ache in his chest that rekindles and takes him apart again. 

“It doesn't matter,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Jon says. “Everything's bullshit and we’re all going to die anyway.” He doesn't sound bitter though; maybe wistful. Jon takes another sip of Tommy's beer before he hands it back to Tommy. It's almost empty but Tommy doesn't think he can face the party right now to get another one. Isn't even sure he can face Jon right now, everything he's ever felt written across his face.

“I wish you had brought weed,” Tommy says. Favs had told Jon like ten times he couldn't, and Jon had said, sharply, “god forbid we shock your aged Catholic relations,” but he'd complied. Tommy doesn't really think it would help; he's in a pretty fucking bad place right now. He should probably stop drinking too.

“You should really get a fucking klonopin prescription,” Jon says. “I can't afford to bankroll your medical marijuana anymore, I run a small media company now, and I stopped fucking my dealer.”

“You did?” Tommy asks, something dark and possessive clawing up within him. He hates everyone Jon sleeps with, even -- especially -- himself. Jon's dealer wasn't any worse than the rest of them, really, and he was a lot better than Ronan was, by the end. 

“After the bachelor party,” Jon says, and then, in a rush, “he hasn't been texting me anyway.” Jon dips his head forward, presses his face into his hands for just a second and Tommy misses the pressure of it. “I think he's dating some girl now,” Jon says, quiet. 

So don't read too much into it you fucking idiot, Tommy thinks, finishing that sentence for Jon. He takes his hand out of Jon's hair and kills the beer.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah, so it's your turn now that Favs is married,” Jon says. “Find some cool tech girl in Santa Monica with a weed start-up or whatever.” His voice is extra high, in the exaggerated way he gets when he talks about Tommy and girls. “Or see your fucking doctor.”

Tommy really doesn't want to talk about going to a doctor with Jon, and he really really doesn't want to talk about the imaginary girl Jon thinks he'll start fucking after Jon, inevitably, ends things. 

“Want to get out of here?” he asks. 

“Sure,” Jon says. “Haven't gotten a better offer.”

“The closeted husbands of St. Mark’s parish not doing it for you?” Tommy asks, standing. He offers Jon a hand and pulls him up, his arms straining against his stupid suit. Jon’s hand is warm, always bigger than he expects. Jon huffs a laugh. 

“Shockingly no,” Jon says, turning around. His ass is covered in sand. 

“You're a mess,” Tommy says. He keeps a firm hand on Jon’s shoulder and reaches down with the other to brush Jon off.

“Ohhh, Tommy,” Jon says, “take me to the confessional.” 

“I'm not Catholic,” Tommy says, pinching Jon’s ass. He can't resist it. Jon makes a little squeak so Tommy puts his hand in Jon’s back pocket, squeezes. He loves the feeling of Jon under his hands, loves it too much, dangerously so. Something within him is coming too close to cracking apart. He wants to bury his face in Jon’s curls, lose himself until the empty burning feeling behind his eyes goes away. 

But Tommy can't do that and survive what will come after, so he pinches Jon again, where his thighs meet his ass. “Let’s go,” he says. 

\--

They kiss in the elevator, Tommy’s hands under Jon’s jacket, low on his back, Jon’s hands gripping Tommy’s lapels, and it would be sweet except for how Tommy has Jon pushed up against the wall, for how Jon is biting at Tommy’s lower lip and trying to grind against him.

“Fuck,” Jon says, against Tommy’s mouth. “Fuck, I've been thinking about this all day.” It makes Tommy feel like his throat is going to close up. He’s been thinking about Jon all day too; Jon in his blue suit, matching Tommy, standing next to him next to the officiant, the backs of their hands just brushing. 

“You want it that bad,” Tommy manages to say, forcing a thigh between Jon’s legs, so that Jon’s feet are barely on the ground. His eyes are whiskey brown, pupils wide. Jon throws back his head and Tommy bites his neck, just above the collar. 

“Want you to fuck me,” Jon says, breathy. He tugs at Tommy’s arms, pulling one hand up to his throat. “Want to feel it tomorrow.”

Jon's pulse is fluttering, high in his throat, and Tommy kisses Jon, presses down on Jon’s neck just a little but feels like he's the one who can't breathe. The elevator pings for their floor.

They barely make it out before the doors close on them, limbs tangled and uncoordinated. Tommy knows he should be dragging Jon to his room but instead he's content to kiss Jon against the wall. His hands are shaking, and he has to hold onto Jon’s hip. He pulls Jon's shirt free from his pants so he can touch skin: the smoothed edge of Jon's hip bone and the edge of his stomach. He curls his fingers around so they can dig into Jon's back. 

“Come on,” Jon says, bucking his hips. “Tommy,” he draws out Tommy’s name, bratty, provoking. It usually makes Tommy want to hold him down, give him everything until there's no space in his head to demand, until for just a few minutes Jon’s empty of everything but want. Tonight Tommy just -- it doesn't matter. He's fine. It's been worse. He bites Jon on the neck again, works his hand further back and down, his fingers skimming over the top of Jon's ass. He presses down hard enough to bruise, promises himself he'll kiss the bruises later. 

Later. Tommy takes a breath, tries to pull back far enough from Jon so he can think, to plan. The thought that there is a distance he could put between him and Jon that would stop him from feeling too much makes a laugh rise up like bile within him, and he buries it in Jon's hair.

“You ok?” Jon asks, his hands pushing between the buttons of Tommy's shirt. He makes a frustrated hum: Tommy’s wearing an undershirt, like always, like he was this morning when they got dressed together.

“Great,” Tommy says. He's going to fuck Jon like Jon wants, hear his name on Jon's lips. He’ll stop panicking and feel better and he’ll be able to talk about his best friend’s wedding the way he should, without lying.

First, he has to get them to his room. Okay. Kiss Jon one more time, properly, with teeth, one hand pulling up Jon’s thigh, so he's wrapped around Tommy, the way Tommy likes him. He pulls back but Jon follows, their noses rubbing, soft, and Tommy has to chase Jon's mouth again. He borrowed Tommy’s cologne this morning and the smell still lingers at the angle of his jaw and his neck, different than how it smells on Tommy. Tommy chases the scent there, the beginnings of Jon’s stubble rough on his lips.

Jon lets out a ragged breath. “Tommy,” he says, and it's not quite a whine now, his voice edging closer to desperation. “Bed.”

“Greedy,” Tommy says, aiming for the right tone, but he tugs Jon the rest of the way down the hallway. He has Jon’s spare keycard in his wallet, manages to get the door open and keep a hand on the broad warmth of Jon’s upper arm.

The room is dark, the black-out shades still drawn from the night before. Tommy fumbles for the light switch. 

Jon makes an annoyed noise against Tommy’s throat and reaches up to turn the lights off again. 

“Jon,” Tommy says, voice too quiet and too rough in the darkness, “I want to see you.”

“This cheap New England fluorescent lighting isn't good for me,” Jon says, pulling back, out of reach. Tommy closes his eyes, hears Jon stumble against the corner of the bed, then the slide of the curtains. He opens his eyes. Jon is by the window, backlit by the moon. Behind him, the ocean’s gilded silver. 

“Much more flattering for my skin tone,” Jon says, but his voice is rough too, like he's aiming for light and bitchy and missing. His face is in shadow.

Tommy closes the distance between them. Jon’s undoing his tie, and Tommy reaches to help him, loosening the knot carefully and then undoing it. 

“I want you to hit me,” Jon says, when his tie and jacket are off and Tommy is taking off Jon’s cufflinks for him. 

Tommy goes still, his fingers wrapped loosely around Jon’s wrist. He's smacked Jon around in bed. a little bit before. He likes it, so much: Jon’s eyes going unfocused for him, Jon loose and easy and sweet afterwards. Likes being the one to take Jon there and the one to bring him back. 

Today has gotten under his skin, worse than he thought, worse than it's been in a while, razor-edged panic still so close to the surface, but that's ok, he can still do this. He's not who Jon wants but he can be what he wants, at least. 

“Bed,” Tommy says, putting as much authority as he can in his voice. “Get naked.” His skin feels hot, then too cold, and he turns so he can't see Jon, skin lit up by the moon. He takes his suit off as fast as he can, his fingers shaking, which makes the buttons hard. He tries to make a plan: get Jon spread out, hit him -- his cheek? his thighs? turn him over? -- then blow him and finger him until he comes. Fuck him if he wants it. 

Tommy's thoughts keep spiraling though, nowhere good, making his heart rate pick up. He curls his fingers into fists, digging his nails into his palms, willing himself to stay where he is.

He turns back around. Jon’s spread out on his messy bed, silver-tinged, too beautiful. He's watching Tommy and Tommy swallows, his mind blank, throat dry. He needs to think of something to say. 

“Jon,” he says, which isn't enough, which is too much. He gets on the bed, straddling Jon’s hips. Jon tilts his head back a little, an offering. His lips are parted just slightly, the space between his lips shadow within a shadow. Tommy can feel Jon tense with anticipation underneath him, can feel his hard dick pressing against Tommy.

Jon wants this, Tommy reminds himself. “You want this,” he tells Jon and Jon nods, agreeable. He winds up and backhands Jon. He can feel Jon’s reaction under him: his dick getting harder, his thighs tensing. The sharp intake of his breath. 

“Harder,” Jon says. It's too dark for Tommy to see the mark he must have left. 

“Don't tell me what to do,” Tommy says, his heart in his throat. He knows what comes next. It's ok. He can. He hits Jon again, harder, and he can feel Jon’s chest heaving. The moonlight glints off his eyes, they look impossibly dark. Tommy can't breathe. “This is all you're good for,” he says, and then starts to cry, like a fucking idiot.

“Tommy?” Jon says, wiggling out from under Tommy. “Tommy, Jesus, come here.” He pulls Tommy down, his hand so gentle on Tommy’s back, softer than Tommy deserves, and gets them both under the covers. Jon twists and turns on the bedside lamp.

There is a pink mark on his cheek, the same color as the little bit of sunburn on the top of his chest. Tommy shuts his eyes.

“No, no, you gotta look at me,” Jon says, his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, moving up to Tommy’s cheek. “Come on Tommy, I'm fine, everything's fine, I got worse playing dodgeball in fifth grade.”

“I know,” Tommy says. He wishes Jon weren't looking at him. He wishes Jon’s curls weren't falling so soft over his forehead, that Jon’s thumb wasn't stroking his cheek. “I'm sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?” Jon asks. “Being so handsome you managed to upstage the stupid Favreau brothers? Leaving the reception without thanking Emily for inviting you? Publicly shaming my shoe choices? Because I know you aren't apologizing to me for doing what I asked you to do.”

“But I didn't do it,” Tommy says, feeling sick. Jon asked him for one easy thing and he was too fucked up to even do that. 

“Sure you did,” Jon says, settling himself onto Tommy’s chest, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s shoulders so he can keep looking at him. He kisses Tommy near the center of his chest, above the desperate pounding of Tommy's heartbeat. “I asked you to hit me and you hit me. Twice. Grammatically, we could even argue that you gave me two hundred percent of what I wanted, considering ‘hit me’ leaves the number of times I wanted to be hit very ambiguous.”

Tommy makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob. At least he's stopped crying. There's no recourse for this feeling. What if this was going to be their last time and he ruined it, what if this wasn't going to be but Jon never wants to fuck around with him again, who would? Tommy's under no illusions about what he brings to a relationship. Being good in bed doesn't stop people from leaving him, but maybe it makes them put it off a little, remember him fondly some nights once they're married to someone else.

“Shhh,” Jon says, “shh, shh, Tommy, babe, it’s ok.” He kisses Tommy’s knuckles, the back of his hand, then his palm. His lips are so soft. His thighs are pressed against Tommy’s, warm and solid, grounding him. “Tell me what you need.”

Tommy shuts his eyes. “I'm fine,” he says.

“Yeah, that's bullshit,” Jon says, resting his head on Tommy’s chest. Tommy can feel the warm puffs of his breath, the scratch of his beard. “Come on. This is your chance. I'll have a threesome with that hot secret service guy. I'll watch an entire baseball game.”

Don't leave me, Tommy thinks, stupid stupid stupid, worn thin by misery. 

“Fuck me,” he says.

“You sure?” Jon says, as though Tommy just suggested they get bahn mi for lunch instead of tacos, as though his dick hasn't been hard against Tommy’s thigh this entire time. “We don't need to have sex, you know.”

“I want to,” Tommy says, flushing hot. He wishes the light was off after all, until Jon sits up, pushes his curls out of his eyes with one hand, his tongue sticking out between his lips, just a little. Tommy feels like his chest is turning itself inside out. How can anyone survive feeling like this?

“You have before, right?” Jon asks, reaching into the bedside table where Tommy put the condoms and lube last night, next to the Bible. Jon had thought it was pretty funny.

“Yes,” Tommy says, feeling his cheeks heat up again. 

“Just checking,” Jon says. “Communication is sexy, blah blah. How do you want it?”

Tommy can't talk. He might as well just blurt every fucking thing he's ever felt. He just looks at Jon, helpless, as Jon runs a hand up and down Tommy’s leg, above the sheets. 

“Christ,” Jon says, but his hand is still so careful on Tommy. “Blink twice for yes and once for no, then. You riding me, spooning, doggie style, face to face --”

“Face to face,” Tommy says, leaning forward to kiss Jon before Jon can get a good look at his face.

“Right then,” Jon says, pulling back. He has a hand on the back of Tommy’s neck. “Under the covers like a repressed 1950s couple?”

“Shut up, Jon,” Tommy says, throwing the sheets to one side and pulling Jon down on top of him. 

“Just trying to make you comfortable,” Jon says, kissing him again, cupping Tommy’s face with both hands. Tommy hasn't been kissed like that since he spent all winter in bed with his boyfriend sophomore year, held in place for it, like something precious.

Jon takes his time, stroking Tommy’s chest, his side, his abs, messing up his hair. “Look at you,” he mutters into Tommy’s cheek.

Look at you, Tommy wants to say. Jon's shoulders are so solid, his forearms pale and smooth. Tommy wants to bury his face in Jon's neck but Jon keeps pulling back, moving Tommy carefully, finding a better angle to kiss him. 

“Ok,” Jon says, when Tommy is rolling his hips up, desperately, into Jon. “It's happening.”

“Great,” Tommy says, squeezing the base of his dick. He doesn't want to come until Jon's inside him. “Hurry up.”

“Yeah, now you get how I feel,” Jon says. “I should spend another forty-five minutes biting the full text of the Odyssey in Morse code into your fucking thighs, see how you like it.”

Tommy laughs, embarrassed and ashamed and helpless. He loves Jon's thighs. “I like your thighs.”

“Freak,” Jon says, gentle. He kisses Tommy’s abs, leans back and carefully removes Tommy’s hand from the base of his dick, his fingers brushing Tommy’s shaft.

“You should feel good,” Jon says, quiet, not looking at Tommy. “It's ok if you come.”

“Jon,” Tommy says, and bites back everything else he wants to say. He feels light-headed.

Jon opens him up cautiously, as though he doesn't trust Tommy to know his own limits. It doesn't hurt -- Tommy hasn't gotten fucked in a while but he's a lot less careful with himself than Jon is -- but Tommy is still glad. He keeps his eyes shut, because he can't watch Jon, intent and focused on him. He tries not to name what he's feeling, to just feel it in his heart and his lungs, the pit of his stomach and his dick, Jon inside of him. 

He keeps quiet, mouthing Jon’s name when he can't hold himself back anymore. He hears the rip of the condom package and then Jon touches his face. There's a little bit of lube on his fingers; it leaves a cold wet smudge. 

“Tommy,” Jon says. “Please, will you look at me?”

Tommy opens his eyes. Jon is so close to him, bright-eyed, bags under his eyes. Tommy pushes himself up on his forearms to kiss him. 

“I,” Tommy starts, then stops. Jon kisses him again, quick, deep.

“It’ll be good,” he promises, getting himself in position, his hands on Tommy's hips. As if it matters to Tommy if it’s good for him or not, as if Tommy even deserves this. 

Jon slides in and Tommy's not sure if he's breathing, eyes open but unseeing. There's nothing else. 

“Tommy?” Jon says, all the way in, their hips pressed together. “You with me?”

Tommy nods, frantic. He doesn't know if he is, really, feels like he's outside of his body, in another world, another time, another life. He loops his leg around Jon to get him an inch, a centimeter, a breath deeper. 

Jon’s arms are braced on either side of Tommy’s head. He’s looking up at Jon. He wonders if Jon will kiss him. 

Jon slides out slowly, pushes back in, changing the angle just a bit. Tommy knows he should help him, shift his hips a little and get Jon where he wants to be, but Tommy doesn't want to come yet and he knows once Jon’s fucking him in earnest he won't last. So he keeps his hips where they are, lets Jon take him over bit by bit. Mostly, he focuses on not saying the only thing he can think.

Too soon, Jon has a hand on his dick, fucking into Tommy too well, every stroke making Tommy’s body go liquid hot. He reaches for Jon's face, uncoordinated, kisses him open-mouthed. 

Jon digs a hand into his shoulder, pulling back from the kiss just a fraction. “Tommy,” he says, just that, nothing in his voice but need, and Tommy comes for him.

Tommy comes back to himself bit by bit, shaking. Jon's still fucking him and he's so grateful, it's pathetic. 

“Jon,” he says, his voice breaking. It's good, past too much, something just for Jon. He shifts his hips so the angle is easier for Jon, rocks back into him. He runs a hand down Jon’s back, digs his nails into the meat of Jon’s ass. Jon comes, a few uneven thrusts, and collapses onto him.

Tommy kisses the side of Jon's face, the fine skin by his eyes. 

Jon just makes a satisfied noise and pulls out. He drops the condom somewhere off the bed, Tommy doesn't care. He feels empty -- the physical ache of Jon’s absence mixed with the black emptiness that follows everything he feels. He takes Jon's hand, his left, his pointer finger and his middle finger and his ring finger, puts them back inside himself.

Jon makes a quiet noise and runs his other hand through the come on Tommy’s stomach. 

“Sorry,” Tommy says, because he knows it can't be good for Jon's wrist. He rocks his hips back a little onto Jon’s fingers. He won't need Jon like this for much longer; he’ll be more in control of himself soon.

“You're allowed to want things,” Jon says. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says, because wanting isn't the problem, Tommy wants all the time. It's having that's the problem, it’s keeping, it’s surviving after. He shuts his eyes and all he can smell is Jon, all he can feel is Jon inside him and around him, all he can hear is the wet sounds of Jon’s fingers in him, their mingled breath. The scratch of hotel sheets. The lamplight through his closed eyelids. Jon. Jon. Jon.

**Author's Note:**

> so much gratitude as always to [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn) and [veryspecificfantasies](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com) for beta-reading this for me; they make everything I do so much smarter and better, and I couldn't write a word without them. thanks also to the brilliant and incomparable [y](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton%22) for her encouragement and kind words. 
> 
> plus, thanks to the lady sitting next to me on the plane yesterday as I wrote this for reading it over my shoulder and to the entirety of this little fandom for being so wonderful. title and summary are (as always) from Carly Rae Jepsen.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com).


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